


Not How The Russians Do It

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"By my count, you and Gaby have had nearly a baker’s dozen of near misses when it comes to your lips and hers.”</i>
</p><p> <i>“By <i>my</i> count, half of the dozen was because of you."</i></p><p>It's practically Napoleon's duty to impart all the advice he has on kissing, when it seems like Illya is never going to get anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not How The Russians Do It

It happens in a dingy hotel room in London, when they’ve been holed up for nearly a week while Gaby tries to extract the information they need out of a fleeing terrorist who’s taken up residence just off St. Paul’s. Every gun they own between them (and some more that have been acquired during the mission) has been cleaned, they’ve taken inventory of their trackers and bugs (somewhat difficult to do, given the tendency of them to go ‘missing’), and have managed to have three games of chess.

(The first had Illya throwing the board in a fit of rage when it became clear Napoleon had no _respect_ for the game, the second was his attempt to teach him, and the third was much the same as the first when it became clear how much of his lessons took)

They were bound to get to talking at some point. 

It’s only a shame they hadn’t held out longer than the week.

“She should be back with new information by now,” Illya says, fidgeting in that terrifying way that always makes Napoleon very glad there’s a gun without three feet at all times. “Why isn’t she back?”

Napoleon toys with one of the pawns on the chessboard, peering up at Illya and knowing it’ll take a good deal of work to get Illya’s mind off Gaby’s continued absence. “Waverly would’ve said something if there was a problem. She’s working and we should let her do what she’s good at. If you keep everything tightly wound like that, you’re going to go off. Come on, sit. Have a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

More for him, then. Napoleon shrugs as he pours himself a Scotch and then a second for good measure, crossing his legs as he wonders what indelicate topic he wants to push at today. He really should know better than to poke at angry looming Russian bears, but Napoleon has a bad habit of not learning his lesson.

Mother and father have been put in the past, given their truce, but there’s a new looming subject that Napoleon has been dying to talk about ever since Rome. He thinks he deserves a medal for keeping it to himself for these last three months.

“So, have the both of you done it yet?”

Illya glares at him with all the ice of a Siberian winter, but Napoleon keeps his smile warm and cheerful as ever, knowing how it annoys him.

“What?” he demands.

“Have you managed to kiss the girl? By my count, you and Gaby have had nearly a baker’s dozen of near misses when it comes to your lips and hers.”

“By _my_ count, half of the dozen was because of you,” Illya heatedly replies. He’s brooding. Napoleon sees it in the way his brow is furrowed and his shoulders are up. He might protest, but it’s clear that this really is bothering him. Eventually, he wanders away from the window to sit opposite of Napoleon, crossing his arms in the chair as he shakes his head. “No,” he finally says, avoiding Napoleon’s gaze when he says the word. “I have not _managed_.”

Napoleon clucks his tongue, shaking his head. 

“As if you could do better?” Illya challenges.

“I think we both know I could,” Napoleon replies smoothly. “I’ve been keeping out of your way. Clearly, you like her. I just don’t know why you’re being such a … “

“Pussy?” Illya interjects.

“Such _language_ ,” Napoleon remarks, as if terribly and crudely offended. “I was going to say Russian, but since you beat me there …”

The glare turns icier and Napoleon figures he only has about one more minute before everything goes red in that perilous and psychotic way that Illya is so famous for. 

He lifts his hands as if surrendering, ready to drive home with the point he’d intended to make from the very beginning of this. “Now, if it’s advice you’re after, I’m the man to turn to. I’m sure I don’t have to provide a list of the very happy women I’ve kissed, but I can assure you, it’s neither short, nor quiet.”

“I don’t need advice on kissing from _you_.”

Napoleon gives Illya a dubious look. Echoes of ‘by my count’ are surely in Illya’s mind and Napoleon has the very best of things on his side: reality. That seems to sink in quickly enough and before you can say ‘are you or have you ever been’, Illya seems to sag slightly in that chair. He doesn’t reach out for the Scotch, but there’s something resigned on his face. Maybe if they hadn’t been holed up for a week, he wouldn’t have relented, and yet…

…well, here they are.

Illya closes his eyes, as if unwilling to look at Napoleon when he breaks. “What sort of advice do you have?”

“Well,” Napoleon begins, pleased as anything that his so clearly talented expertise has been ceded to, given his particular talent in these areas. He shifts to perch on the arm of the chair that Illya is sitting on, knowing that he’s going to press the biggest, reddest, most terrifying button of them all, but it may very well be worth it for the result. “May I?” he asks, with a gesture.

Illya seems confused, but he often has that rather struck look on his chiseled, handsome features. Napoleon may have a predilection for women, but he’s bagged his fair share of men during the way. An opportunist never turns down what’s in front of him, _especially_ when it’s large, looming, and has such big, lovely hands that Napoleon has to wonder if the old saying isn’t true.

“May you what?”

Never a better time, thinks Napoleon as he leans down to subdue Illya with one hand pressing his wrist down so he can’t reach for a gun or a knife or give him the Russian version of what Americans clearly do so much better. The other, he takes his time cupping Illya’s cheek with, rubbing the calloused pad up and down those lovely lines and up to touch on that scar. There’s still enough room between them that he can see the frantic look in Illya’s eyes, but this is likely the only opportunity he’s going to get for this.

Whatever hesitations Illya has with Gaby, there’s none of them on display here and now. Napoleon kisses him as if they were fighting, grappling that hand and tangling it in his hair, kissing him with lips and tongue and teeth when Illya finally unfreezes and goes from a dead fish to a man stubbornly determined to show his own skill off. Napoleon feels himself being pulled down from the arm of the chair, torsos pressed flush together as he moves his nose just enough to the side to give Illya the chance to deepen the kiss. The man doesn’t disappoint, hands sliding lower to cup Napoleon’s very toned ass, hauling him in while he kisses harder than before.

He might be going crazy, but he could swear he hears the soft start of his name being exhaled into his lips, a groan that could be conceived as ‘cowboy’ lost amongst the desperate moans.

Minutes later, Napoleon is pushed away, left panting and with a generous cut on his lower lip from where Illya had bit him before soothing the bite with his lips and enough suction that Napoleon thinks he’s going to look painted red in the lips for hours, yet.

He waits curiously, wary, and wonders if a minutes-long kiss from another man is something that can trigger Illya and send him off into one of his little…episodes. He has visions of large hands closing off his windpipe or suddenly being knocked unconscious. Soon, though, it becomes clear that Napoleon might be waiting forever. Illya keeps flexing his fingers, staring up at Napoleon with confusion, then down at his father’s watch, and then back at him.

If only Napoleon had known this had been the key to taming the giant, he might have tried that sooner.

Adjusting his rumpled collar, Napoleon clears his throat to shake loose the hoarseness he can feel there. “See? You can clearly manage with someone as handsome as I am, so you need to stop hesitating,” he lectures. “If you wait too long, she’s going to end up with someone else.” He dabs the cut with his thumb, trying to tame his racing heart (and trying to convince his hardening dick that there are better times for such a reaction). “Maybe not so rough with her, Peril.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Illya says darkly.

“Why? Because you enjoyed it?” Napoleon counters. The red flush in Illya’s cheeks is evidence enough that he had and Napoleon truly refuses to feel guilty for his passions, no matter what hot, boiling water they might land them into. “I told you. I know you like Gaby and I won’t stand in either of your way,” he says, easing away from the arm of the chair as he reluctantly begins to put that kiss into his memory, tucked away for the most private of moments. “You’re already working with the enemy, Peril,” he points out. “What’s the harm in taking advice from them, too?”

“I haven’t been fucking them,” Illya retorts. 

“Maybe you should stick to the basics,” says Napoleon. “Kiss Gaby before she gets away from you,” he instructs, leaning over to pluck up the second glass of Scotch, nursing it as he begins to walk to the bedroom, hoping that Illya is watching how Napoleon’s pants press just a little too tight. “And if the two of you ever want a third, you know where I live.”

He waits just long enough to get his tie off in the bedroom, sticking his head back out as he smirks in delight to see Illya touching his lips with something like reverence.

“Besides, she probably needs the help getting the stick out of your ass,” he says genially, grinning when Illya starts slightly to find he’s been discovered in such a compromising position that leaves very little to the imagination as to how much he’d enjoyed that little kiss.

“If you think you’re anything big enough to replace it, you’re as stupid as you look,” Illya replies.

Napoleon grins as he works his tie off, hip pressed against the bedroom door. He wonders when it is that he got to the point that insults and mild distrust got him so turned on, but now that he’s here, he can’t find it in him to protest.

“Kiss Gaby sometime this week before it’s too late,” he instructs. “We’ll go from there, tiger.”

Napoleon really feels that the base growl he gets in reply is a sound well earned. He’ll definitely be pulling on that memory along with that scorching kiss, hopefully not for very long as he has to hope that the both of them will be eager for more, soon enough.


End file.
